“Oh, I almost forgot! Here’s your shirt.” Bri beamed, as she thrust a folded pink T-shirt into Rosalee’s hands. The words ‘The Future Mrs. Beake’ were embroidered in hideous sparkly gold letters on the front of it.

I couldn’t help smiling as I watched Rosalee unfold the shirt and hold it up to her face. There was a flicker of something—a tiny clench in her jaw. But then she smiled brightly at Bri. “I love it! Thank you so much for making the shirts, Bri.”

That flicker of annoyance, quickly masked with gratitude, came as no surprise to me. Rosalee’s best friend and maid of honor, Mara, and her cousin, Tinsley, were in charge of throwing the bachelorette party. Yet my daughter Bri had insisted on overseeing the shirts from Day One. Bri had a close friend from high school who designed her own T-shirts—a cheesy endeavor, if you ask me—and she had promised to get them well-made, and at a reasonable price. But the others should have known, price isn’t really something we worry about.

Mara had suggested something cute and classy— ‘Here comes the bride’, ‘Crown me’—and even a few funny inscriptions— ‘Bride-zilla’, ‘Soon to be under new management’. But I was the one who pushed for ‘The Future Mrs. Beake’, and Bri had gone along with it too. She always listened to her mother.

It wasn’t my fault Rosalee wanted to keep her own last name. Disgraceful, that’s what it was. She should have been grateful to call herself a Beake now, especially considering the social standing the name would give her…

I’d expected an angrier reaction from her when she saw the shirt, but I should have known better—Rosalee was polite, if anything. Always biting her lip, being a try-hard when it came to impressing us and Asher. But I could see through her phony routine.

I watched in horror as Rosalee removed her thin jacket and started tugging the new T-shirt over the ratty one she was already wearing.

“Oh, you don’t have to do that now…” Bri said, looking around at passers-by, embarrassed.

“No, I want to! Thanks again for this. I just adore it. Your friend who makes these is very talented,” Rosalee beamed, struggling to pull the T-shirt over her breasts and flabby stomach. She wasn’t a heavy girl, but she certainly wasn’t in shape. Last year I bought her a pair of maternity pants for Christmas, hoping she would take the hint. Instead, she had thanked me and promised to wear them soon. Knowing her and her fashion sense, she probably did wear them…